The Cookie Fairy
by Twelve Winterflowers
Summary: AU. It was against everything I am, everything I believed in, to fall in love with her. But I did, anyway. NxM
1. Rain Person

**AN: Hey guys. If you've read my stories, I'm sad to say they're still on hiatus. Please don't kill me. I'll try to get to them once life slows down a bit. Summer this year has been hectic. *sighs* This fic contains ****AU, Fluff, angst, drama, OOCs****. Nevertheless, enjoy! I had to get writing again. I got inspiration for this fic from a story in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Stories for a Better World—it's entitled "One Cookie At A Time" by Sylvia Leighton. I was really touched by it. The title of this fic came from that story, too. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gakuen Alice.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Cookie Fairy<strong>

**.One.**

**Rain Person**

* * *

><p>Things have always been easy for me. Sports, academics, music, making friends, snagging girls—most especially snagging girls—came to me effortlessly. Call me arrogant, but I'm simply stating facts. I didn't need to try to excel; I already excelled in anything I tried. I'm a Hyuuga, after all, and all Hyuugas had King Midas's touch. Anything we held became valuable. Anything we handled flourished.<p>

But, as much as I hate to admit, I had one weakness, one thing I could never excel at.

Kindness.

Showing kindness to others, showing affection and concern—those are things I cringe at the mere thought of doing, and Hyuugas never cringe away from anything.

I'm not exactly certain if my inability to show kindness is innate, or if it became innate through my upbringing, but I highly suspect it's the latter. My mother died when I was so young that I could hardly remember her face, let alone her words and her modes of affection, and my father wasn't a very affectionate man, to say the least. He was a businessman, cold and exacting, especially after Mother's death. He displaced his grief to me in the form of rigorous discipline.

Aside from that, he was also an extremely busy man, but even if he wasn't around for most of the critical stages in my life (like my first soccer championship and my graduation from elementary), his role in influencing me was vital. He controlled my every action—he chose my school, my sports, my instrument, and even my food and clothes—and everything I did, I did to please him. But usually I received no word of praise from his mouth. If I did something exceptionally well, the most he would do to acknowledge my achievement is to nod his head once. But if I failed, he would reprimand me and bring up all my other faults, then send me to my room on an empty stomach and a red welt from his belt across my bottom. When I was younger, I used to cry when he administered this punishment, and he would always tell me, "Wipe your tears, son. It's disgraceful for a _boy_ to be seen like this."

Father was like that. He didn't merely expect excellence from me; he expected perfection. He pushed me harder every time and honed me relentlessly because I was his only heir, and he expected me to take over our real estate empire one day. I received a lot of instructions from him, but one that he always reminded me of was, "Never be soft. Never be fooled. Trust no one but yourself."

I resisted him in the best way I could. Sometimes I would sneak out to attend parties; sometimes I would steal wine bottles from our basement. Petty things, yes, but they made me feel like I had some semblance of _control_. It was what I resented him for, after all—assuming control over _my _life, as if I were some android that he could input any sort of data in on whim. I didn't want to be like him, but after so many years of hearing his words and watching his actions, I had imbibed them until they became a part of me. Until _he_ became a part of me, and I an extension of him. His puppet, if you will.

Now, as a young adolescent of 17, I mirrored him more than ever. Like him, I've become apathetic to the feelings of others and my surroundings; I could hear a story about a blind, orphaned child whose mother died in a gang rape and whose father was shot five times in the gut and thrice in the head and still not feel more than an ounce of compassion.

My apathy may sound unnatural to you. Indeed, it is unnatural, but I had never realized I was so emotionally impaired until I met her. Before her, I assumed everyone else was like me: wary, mistrustful, distant, and on certain occasions, adept at flattery and polite conversation. But when I met her, how could I not notice the stark contrast of our personalities? She was a whirlwind of color and smiles, of spontaneity and heart; and though normally I did not bother with people like her, the circumstances under which we met were anything but normal.

* * *

><p>On the cloudy afternoon of the day that I had met her, my father had reprimanded me once again on my inconsistency regarding my grades. Yuu Tobita had ranked first in class, even if he had overtaken me by just 0.15 points. But, that morning, instead of humbly bowing my head in shame and muttering my promises to do better the next time, I lashed out at him.<p>

"It's only 0.15 points! It's insignificant!" I thundered, my fists clenched in rage. "And Yuu doesn't have any extracurricular activities aside from being the Council President! I, on the other hand, have to balance my study time with soccer and band practices, along with debate and science competitions!" I took a deep breath, watching my father's surprised facade in satisfaction. It was the first time I had so openly rebelled against him. "Everyone idolizes me for being so accomplished," I continued in a deceptively calmer tone. "Everyone admires and acknowledges my multiple talents. Everyone but _you_, my own father. I don't even hear any word of praise. To you, I'm talentless. To you, I'm never good enough."

My steely eyes met his. He had already composed himself into the father I knew—stern and ready to exact a proper punishment on his wayward son. "Natsume, you do not talk to me like that—"

I sneered. "Sorry, _Father_," I spat the word out. "I believe I just did." And in a fit of blinding anger, I grabbed the nearest set of car keys and stormed out of the house.

I drove around aimlessly for about an hour, seething and cursing to myself in the driver's seat, until my car sputtered to a stop. My cursing came out more colourfully now, and I tried turning the ignition off and on again while slamming on the gas pedal, but the car only inched forward a little until it completely died again.

I raked my fingers through my hair and took a single calming breath before trying to restart the ignition. Then, I promptly slapped my forehead when I realized which set of keys I had grabbed in my haste to leave my father's presence—it was the vintage Lamborghini's. Damn, of all of the six cars we had, I just had the luck to get the one which wasn't regularly maintained. In fact, I was obliged to thank my lucky stars for making it last more than fifteen minutes.

I stepped out of the car, noting that I was in a secluded place outside of our neighbourhood, and proceeded to inspect it. Nothing seemed wrong with its exterior, except for the oil tracks that dripped from one of the parts. For all my masculinity, I had never fixed a car engine before, nor did I know how to diagnose an auto problem. Father had people from the car company itself to do it for us. From what little I knew about machinery, however, I suspected something was wrong with the petroleum engine.

This hypothesis in mind, I crossed my arms and brooded on my next action. I knew I left my phone at home, because having it with me would mean that Father had a means of tracking me—I was unsure if he really did have a tracker, but since he gave me my phone, he could have very well installed it in—and for now, even whilst I was stranded in the middle of a place I was unfamiliar of with only a thousand yen in my pocket, I had no desire to return home if it meant having to face him. He would probably ban me from this year's soccer season, and if my punishment was to be that heavy, I might as well revel in my 'freedom' now while I still can.

I had to find a place with a phone, but the nearest public place I could see from this road was a cemetery.

And it was closed.

Not that it would've been any use if it was opened, anyway.

I scowled to myself, thinking that my day couldn't possibly worsen. Soon I retracted that statement when the sky darkened and drops of rain fell from the heavens.

I hadn't brought an umbrella, and I couldn't get back in the car for shelter, since the water might spoil the quality of its leather seats. I didn't think the water could actually spoil leather, but I didn't want to take any chances; my father prized this car above all the others since it was the only model left. No one else made them like these anymore.

I growled in frustration. Since I couldn't physically hurt whatever gods were maneuvering the day's events, I took my anger out on the car's wheel by kicking it like I would kick a soccer ball. Only the wheel was much harder than a mere soccer ball and my whole foot throbbed a few seconds after contact.

I, Natsume Hyuuga, was reduced to a wet, limping, howling boy with a swollen toe. Fate must be mocking me, I'm sure.

At that precise moment, I caught sight of a pink umbrella with cat ears sticking out of it coming my way. Hopeful, I composed myself and stood tall and dignified—or as dignified as I could possibly be in my state—and prepared myself to charm the lady coming.

My charming smile slipped, though, when I perceived the owner of the umbrella.

I had seen her many times before. She didn't attend Alice Academy like I did, but she attended a school nearby—Morimoto Academy of Arts—so at times, our schools held events together, and the students had basically the same hangout joints. She didn't actually hang out with any students, but on weekends we'd always see her in a pink tutu, giving out homemade cookies to the beggars roaming outside the hangouts. Sometimes she'd also hand cookies out to whoever needed cheering up, usually senior citizens and children, so she'd earned the nickname "The Cookie Fairy". To me and my friends, though, she was "The Kooky Fairy", or simply the crazy girl in the pink tutu.

She was dressed in such a fashion now. She had on her usual bright pink tutu with glitters and ribbons trailing down the bodice, paired with pink tights and ballet flats. She had a shimmering golden crown perched on her head and a large, woven basket of rainbow colors draped on her arm, while holding a sort of wand in her hand. She looked like a character plucked right out of a children's storybook, or a lunatic from an asylum.

"Oh!" she exclaimed when she saw me from a few feet away. "I just _knew _there was someone here... Are you alright?"

She looked ridiculous, but I restrained myself from blurting out all the biting comments on the tip of my tongue. I contemplated for awhile whether or not I should answer her, because one, I would never stoop as low as to speak to a social outcast, and two, I would never stoop so low as to speak to a social outcast to ask for help. I barely even asked help from anyone.

She didn't seem to mind that I took so long to answer. Instead, she took one look at my car and at the oil still dripping down on the concrete, and pursed her lips. "Looks like you have a leak here," she said.

I rolled my eyes and replied with sarcasm, "A leak. Of course. Why hadn't I seen that before?"

"Oh, that's alright, it's easily fixed," she said cheerily, oblivious to my acerbic response.

I snorted. She was a girl, for crying out loud. What could girls in pink tutus know about cars?

"Really," she said, with a bright smile that rivalled the shimmer of glitter that dusted her tutu in abundance. "I think there's something wrong with your car's PVC valve."

I raised an eyebrow at this piece of information. Of course, the PVC valve—oil could get clogged up in it if it wasn't cleaned at least once a month. And since we hardly used the Lamborghini anymore, only the exterior was cared for. But how in the world could she know that? She didn't look like the type who would say something like that; she looked like the type who knew only words like "fluffy", "flowers", "bunny"... You get my point.

She probably read my expression, because her smile turned sheepish as she said, "My Daddy's a mechanic, and sometimes when I'm bored I help him with fixing cars." When I said nothing in response, she said, "We could bring it over to my place. It's only a few blocks from here, and Daddy works in the garage."

I gave her a piercing glare. Not only was she a social outcast; she was the daughter of an auto mechanic, and in our place, they were notorious for giving out unreasonable prices for their services. I didn't give a damn if I had to be stuck here for days; my pride wouldn't allow me to associate with the likes of her. "I already called for help. I'm just waiting for my friends to come."

"Oh, I see," she replied, nodding. Then she gasped. "How inconsiderate of me!" She moved to stand beside me and raised the umbrella higher so it could accommodate us both. "You shouldn't be standing here in the rain. It's only going to get worse. Are you sure you don't want to wait for your friends at my place...?"

"Positive. And I rather like the rain. You don't need to share with me," I replied tersely. Could she not take the hint and leave?

She looked at me dubiously. It was true that I didn't mind the rain, but I very much minded my personal space, and she was invading it. Finally, she relented. "If you say so. Have a cookie instead?"

Oh, gods.

As if a cookie could ward off the rain and bring the Lamborghini back to life.

I accepted it anyway, just to shut her up. "Thank you," I said brusquely, glimpsing the small message on the cookie which said, "You're Special" before pocketing it. She shifted the umbrella to her other hand so she could get a cookie and unwrap the sheer plastic off it before taking a bite.

"So, you're a rain person, huh?"

Her absurdly random question caught me off-guard. "Pardon?"

"You're a rain person," she smiled, after swallowing another bite. "Someone who likes rainy days. That's rare. I usually meet sun persons; I've met only a few rain persons."

It was true that I rather liked the rain. If for some people the rain was depressing, for me it was refreshing. Although I didn't hold anything against the sun, I liked the way the rain washed away the dirt and grime off the concrete and cleansed the city of polluted air. Sometimes I would like to imagine the rain washing my faults and failures down the city canals along with the its muck and trash; something I wished my father would do for me—give me a clean slate, a new chance at living my own life.

I told her none of these things, though. It was all too personal to disclose. I said nothing instead.

"I'm a rain person, too." I could care less for what she was saying, but that statement did pique my interest, if only a bit. How could she be a rain person? She was the freaking Cookie Fairy, for crying out loud. She actually did something to help the beggars, not just pity them from a distance, and she made cranky old people nice and crying kids smile. Everything about her screamed warm and sunny. "The rain refreshes me. Sometimes I still play in the rain, because I feel like it can wash away all my insecurities and people's prejudices..."

She trailed off, as if she had just realized she said too much. Something heavy settled on my chest, and I vaguely recognized the feeling as guilt. But why would I feel guilty? I hadn't even taken a jab at her in her face now. I might've done so with my friends, but she should have known people were bound to make fun of her when she decided to strut around in a cheap fairy costume, asking for attention...

And then it hit me. Now that I had met her, I couldn't say anymore that she was an attention-seeker. She was too transparent and sincere in helping, even now to me—I had been nothing but cold to her, and she decided to keep me company, even if no one else was around to witness it. Yet, I had never seen her as an actual person. I saw her as one would see a celebrity—someone always smiling, always helping, always impervious to what people said about her. But no one can be completely impervious to what others thought of them, no matter how strong he or she was, and in her case, she probably suffered the insults behind her back in silence. That made her more human. And the fact that we eerily had the same reason for being rain persons.

Gods, I was even adapting her terminologies now.

But still, I said nothing. I was so absorbed in this new insight and how I should handle it; I wasn't used to dealing with people like her—people who were below my social status—because I had no opportunity to interact with them. All my life I had lived in the company of rich kids, those children of business tycoons and inventors and politicians. With them, you had to be careful with your words, because sometimes we spoke one thing when we really meant the other. It was hard to make any real, human friends who actually cared more for you than your name; in my circle of friends, I had only two whom I could trust with my life. I wasn't complaining, though. One true friend was rare enough; two was a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

"So, what's your name?" Her sunny smile was back on her face. It wasn't forced, though. I of all people should be able to tell a genuine smile from a fake one.

The fact that she didn't know me didn't faze me. It was my father who was well-known; apart from his name, I was virtually a nobody. In this case, I decided to leave my surname out. "Natsume."

"Mikan." She beamed and held out her hand to me. I hesitated, but after a moment I took her hand and gave it a brief, firm shake. "So, Natsume," she said, conversationally again. "Your friends aren't really coming, are they?"

Stunned by the question, I sought refuge in a quick lie. "Of course they are."

"If they were," she said, "You would be holding on to your phone right now, anxiously waiting for their calls or texts or anxiously calling or texting them. But you aren't."

"My battery died," I said, rising up to take the defensive. What little sympathy I had evaporated back to condescension, which was far easier for me to handle.

She scrutinized me for a moment. Then, she said, "I know you probably think I'm weird, and that my Daddy's dishonest, but we're not. Well, maybe _I'm _weird, but my Daddy's an honest man. If you want, I could ask him to change your PVC valve for free. But you can't stand here all day in the rain. You'll get sick, and you won't be able to find help anywhere nearby. Our nearest neighbours live twenty minutes away from here by car."

This piece of information startled me. If I remember correctly, I had been driving for only an hour; where in the world had I stopped at? And why did she live so far from Morimoto Academy? Did she walk home every day? How did her father manage to make a living if he lived so far from everyone and worked only in his garage?

I wasn't beginning to care for her, mind you. It was simple curiosity.

Her gaze on me did not waver as I stared back at her, weighing my situation. I loved the rain, but now it pelted harder on my skin, soaking me thoroughly and leaving me cold and chilled to the bone. I don't think I could walk twenty minutes to the next house—I didn't know which direction to take, even. I could wait for my father's search party to find me, but that would damage my pride further. It would just prove to him that I was weak and incapable of caring for myself.

So I swallowed my pride and mumbled, "Alright, I'm coming with you."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry if it's a bit slow. I'm aiming for a realistic approach. =) I also don't know much about cars, but I did a bit of research. If I wrote anything wrong, please feel free to point it out. I'll post the next chapter up tomorrow. *grins* This is a three-shot, BTW. Please review!<strong>


	2. A Pocketful of Sunshine

**AN: Chapter 2 on time, as promised. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gakuen Alice, Pocketful of Sunshine (by Natasha Bedingfield), or Yomiuri Shimbun (Japanese newspaper). **

* * *

><p><strong>The Cookie Fairy<strong>

**.Two.**

**A Pocketful of Sunshine**

* * *

><p>"Hello, Daddy!" She flung her arms around a tall, broad-shouldered man with a small beer belly protruding from his shirt. He picked her up and swung her around, laughing. "Where did my little fairy fly off to today?"<p>

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. What sort of man speaks like that?

"I met a little girl today," she said, giggling still as he put her down. "She loved the cookies so much that she wouldn't stop following me around until her Mummy came to pick her up in the park. She cried when she had to leave my side! I don't know if I should be flattered, but I was."

"That's lovely, Mikan," he said, smiling. "Now, who's this wet duckling you brought in?"

I bristled at that. Wet duckling? How dare he compare me to a wet duckling? I could compare his garage to a trash dump!

"Natsume Hyuuga, sir," I replied curtly. I threw in my surname, hoping that he would recognize whom he was speaking to, but his face was smooth of any signs of recognition.

Damnit. Does he never read the Business section of _Yomiuri Shimbun_ or watch CNN? We made headlines at least every month!

"His car broke down a few blocks from here," she replied, when I didn't put in more information about myself. "I think his car's PVC valve clogged up with sludge oil. He left it two blocks down the bend. Could you fix it up for him, Daddy?"

"Sure can do," he beamed, and I noticed how much of her smile was inherited from him. "Name's Izumi. Nice to meet you, kid. Now, let's go see that car of yours... Mikan, be a dear and cook us dinner. Looks like the rain won't be stopping anytime soon."

Ten minutes later, Izumi and I had the Lamborghini in the garage, and he couldn't stop ogling at it and caressing its exterior. He talked to it as if it were a woman, for God's sakes! He probably passed on his eccentricity to his daughter...

"You better get inside and shower," Izumi suggested, as he peeled his shirt off and grabbed a nearby towel that hung from a single rusty nail in his garage. "Mikan can grab some of my clothes for you to use and she'll dry the ones you have on now."

I looked at him doubtfully. This man trusted me, a complete stranger, to be alone with his daughter in his home? Not that I planned to do anything to her—heavens, no—but it was a bit unusual, his lack of protectiveness of her. I knew normal fathers were touchy of leaving their daughters alone with a boy.

He laughed at my expression. "I trust you, Natsume. You look like a good kid," he said, clapping me on the back. My knees nearly buckled at the impact of his meaty hand slamming on my shoulder, and that said a lot, since I wasn't exactly a weakling with our rigorous soccer practices. But, I got his message. I touch her, and he was very capable of hurting me. "Besides, I don't reckon you're interested in her. Boys her age usually..." He gave me a sidelong glance. "Well, you get what I mean. But she wouldn't be Mikan without her quirks. I love her for that." He chuckled before sending me off into the house.

I found the fact that he called me a good kid quite hilarious. I sulked enough to make anyone suspect that I was a murderer in disguise. I partied almost every other night. I stole alcohol from my father's secret stash. I changed girlfriends every few months. I mucked up Narumi's computer system so he wouldn't be able to print out our exams. And he calls me a good kid? Laughable.

Their house was small, but I was a guest, and I couldn't be choosy. Perhaps I was just used to my spacious home that I found theirs cramped, but at least it was neat, spotless, and bright—the walls were painted with warm colors of yellow, orange and apple green. A contrast to my home, which was painted in tasteful but neutral tones of brown.

"Bathroom's down the hall to the left," she said, handing me a set of clothes worn from wash and wear, and a clean white towel that smelled like aftershave. It was a far cry from the designer clothes provided for me at home, but then again, I couldn't afford to be choosy. "Don't touch the third shower knob; it falls off when you do," she grinned sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Daddy forgot to fix it. Oh, and if you need to use the phone, you'll find one outside the bathroom."

She really talked a bit too much, but I was grateful for the information. I didn't feel like contacting my father right now, though. "Thank you."

She smiled. "It's no problem. Now go shower, you're muddying the kitchen floor."

"I—" _don't take orders from you_, I was about to say, but I swallowed my words and summoned up a little civility.

In the shower, as I undressed, I felt a _crunch _of something in my pocket. Puzzled, I searched my pants until I found the chocolate chip cookie she handed me earlier. My friends used to whisper behind her back that it contained poison, but when I thought about it, she should be handing out poisoned cookies to us, not innocent old people and little kids.

I regarded it suspiciously, but curiosity soon won me over and I peeled the plastic layer off. I took a tentative bite.

Huh. It was pretty good.

* * *

><p>When I stepped out the shower in an oversized shirt that read "Can't get enough of this" (I can't believe that old man Izumi actually owned this) and a pair of lose shorts, I heard her singing.<p>

She was terribly off-tune.

"_I got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine, I got a love and I know that he's all mine, oh, whoaaa!"_ She sang, while stirring the spaghetti sauce and poking at the noodles. I noticed that she had changed out of her ridiculous outfit already. She was now garbed in a pink Hello Kitty shirt and dark blue teddy bear shorts, with a frilly orange apron over that. _"Do what you want but you're never gonna break me, sticks and stones are never gonna shake me, no, wh—_wh-WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" she suddenly screeched, instinctively leaping away from me like a cat splashed on with water, shielding herself with her wooden spoon.

Amused, I drawled, "Making sure that your cooking isn't as horrible as your singing." Surprisingly, I didn't mean it as an insult. And surprisingly, I didn't feel as disgusted with the idea of talking to her, even if I still found her weird. After doing a lot of thinking in the shower, I decided to put some of my prejudices and suspicions aside. She and her father had offered me such hospitality, anyway, and I was raised to be charming to my hosts—it was just that I've never had strange, middle-class social-outcast folks before. Besides, my car was being fixed for free, my dinner was being prepared for free, my big toe wasn't throbbing anymore, my father hadn't come looking for me yet, and for the moment I could do whatever I wanted without the fear of rebuke or ridicule.

I was free to be myself.

It was odd that I felt this sort of freedom here, at a place so far away from home, with people I would normally scoff at.

If Father found out I was associating right now with such outcasts, he would be furious.

I grinned at the thought.

She turned several shades of pink before huffing. "Really, I give you free shelter, a free auto job, and a free concert, yet still you show no gratitude?"

I smirked, mildly surprised at her semblance of wit. "Thank you for the shelter and the auto job. I'll refrain from speaking about your little concert."

She laughed. It was an uninhibited, rumbling sort of laugh, deep and rich, one that compelled you to laugh along as well. "Fine, I concede. I'm a horrible singer. I hope I didn't permanently damage your eardrums."

I made a show of prodding my ear before saying, "Pardon? Did you say something?"

She rolled her eyes, still laughing. "You actually have a sense of humor."

I raised an eyebrow, and she hastened to explain. "Well, awhile ago you were pretty grouchy. You didn't look capable of smiling. But then I guess you'd be upset, since your car broke down in the middle of a storm and all... How's your foot, by the way?"

Dear gods. Had she witnessed me kick my car and hop around in pain after? How could I, Natsume Hyuuga, be reduced to such miserable antics that amused even the strangest oddball in town? I kept my face neutral as I answered her. "What do you mean?"

She smirked, this time. As if she knew what I was keeping from her knowledge. "Oh, never mind. I must've imagined it. By the way, would you like me to hang your clothes up to dry?"

"I hung them up in the bathroom, if that's alright," I replied. "And I believe I'm very capable of hanging my own clothes."

"Really, now? You look like you haven't done chores for a single day of your life," she observed. "If the designer labels on your clothes indicate anything, that is."

I snorted. "I'm well-off, not stupid."

She chuckled as she turned the stove off and placed the noodles in a strainer. I didn't say it out loud, but her spaghetti smelled delicious. I salivated for it already, and I don't normally do so, even with Chef's cooking. "Hey, Natsume, can you bring the pot to the dining table? The potholders are by the counter. I'll go check if you wrung the water out of your clothes properly."

I couldn't tell if she was joking (was there actually a proper way of wringing clothes?), because she swept out of the room already. Down the hall, when she thought she was out of earshot, she erupted into her horrific singing again. _"I got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine..."_

I smirked. She definitely had more than a pocketful of sunshine, though.

She had so much sunshine that it spilled from her aura in waves, and snatches of it infected me, to the point that I didn't mind being reduced to a kitchen boy following her orders. I would've taken time to ponder over this and sneer at my current pathetic state, but first I had to figure out what in the world potholders are...

* * *

><p>Once I deduced that potholders were supposed to...well, hold pots, I found a pair with ducks printed over it by the counter, just as she had said. With them, I transferred the pot from the stove to the table, and noticed that four plates were set. We were only three in the house at the moment—<p>

Ah, yes. It must be intended for her mother. I wondered if she was as eccentric as her husband and daughter—and if she wasn't, I wondered how she kept her sanity.

My hostess returned after a few minutes, mirth shining in her eyes at the sight of me hovering awkwardly over the dining table, and gestured me to take a seat in front of her. I gladly did so and reached for the serving spoon when she slapped my hand away.

"What?" I asked, indignant.

She pursed her lips. "I know you're hungry, but we have to wait until all family members are present on the table before anyone touches the food." She laughed when my stomach did the protesting to her statement. "Don't your parents establish that tradition at your home?"

I paused to choose my words carefully. How could I say that I wasn't used to waiting for others because I ate alone? That my father and I ate meals at different times, if he was home? That I never once dined with my whole family? "Not really," I decided to say. "They let me eat whenever I want to." And, before she could comment, I changed the subject. "So we're waiting for your father and mother?"

She nodded. "Daddy should be done in ten minutes or so, unless your car engine hasn't had a proper cleaning in awhile." I cringed at her statement. "Mum's already here."

"Where?" I asked, puzzled.

"Here," she smiled and gestured to the length of the yellow-walled dining room. "She painted and designed this whole house, you know. While she was pregnant with me." Pride laced her voice. "Daddy tried to help her, but she was stubborn and only allowed him to paint the ceiling."

I still didn't understand how this little side-story of her mother was supposed to answer my question, but when she said nothing to follow it up, I said, thinking of how she wouldn't leave me alone in the rain awhile ago, "She's as stubborn as you."

Her brown eyes (I only noticed now what her eye color was) misted over, and she smiled sadly. "Was. She passed away four years ago."

This piece of information surprised me. How could tragedy touch the life of someone like her? And how could she seem so unaffected by it? I struggled to come up with an appropriate answer. I couldn't sympathize because although I had lost my mother to death as well, I hadn't really known her except for what the maids said about her. I never really had the opportunity to comfort anyone in my circle of friends—we were all very tight-lipped on our family affairs, save for Ruka, but even then I could only awkwardly pat his shoulder.

"I'm—sorry. For your loss," I muttered thickly.

She smiled. "We haven't really lost her. I feel her with me every time, especially here, where she's buried so close."

I recalled the cemetery I saw earlier and couldn't help but ask, "Did the cemetery exist before your mother decided to renovate this place?"

"Yes. Mum had a penchant for the supernatural," she replied, her eyes twinkling. "Daddy didn't want to live here, and anyone could understand why. But Mum wanted to see ghosts. So she chose this place. Plus, it's kind of isolated... She never did like the city noise."

"Isn't it inconvenient?" I surprised myself with asking another question. I didn't normally initiate conversations, but I was entranced with her story.

"Not really." She propped her chin on her hand. "Shortly after Mum died, I received my acceptance letter from Morimoto. Kinda bittersweet, really. Daddy decided to let me stay in the dorms in Morimoto, and he put up a new auto shop nearby, with a small upstairs floor so he could live there. But every weekend we make it a point to go back here to visit her."

As she was talking, I began to take notice of her other features. There really wasn't anything extraordinary about her—physically, she was quite plain. Brown hair, brown eyes, a pale complexion, a slim frame with subtle curves, and a face that could be easily forgotten.

What was funny was that I also thought, along with these observations, that she was beautiful.

Maybe not on the outside, but with some people, their personality is so much more attractive than their physical appearance that you unconsciously disregard the former.

Quite cheesy for me, but it was true. Her personality, her heart, was beautiful.

_She _was beautiful.

Her rich laughter brought me back to my senses. It took a few more seconds for me to realize that she was laughing at my loudly grumbling stomach. "Poor stomach. It's not used to being deprived for so long, is it?"

I shrugged. "Yes. I tend to spoil it, I'm afraid."

She continued to laugh. She seemed to laugh often, even if I reckon I didn't say anything amusing. "If you keep spoiling it, it'll end up looking like Potty."

"Potty?"

"Daddy's beer belly's name. After the pot-bellied pigs I saw at the farm when I was seven."

"You gave a name to your father's _stomach_?"

She looked embarrassed. "I was seven!"

I couldn't help it. I roared in laughter. She looked flustered at first, but she joined in my laughter moments later.

It wasn't even extraordinarily funny, but I laughed until I was gasping for breath. I hadn't laughed like that since Koko wet his pants in fifth grade.

"What's this? Starting joke-time without me?" Her father suddenly barged in the dining room, reeking of rain and sweat and oil. His hands were washed, but black stains were visible on the gray shirt he put on after the other one got wet in the rain.

He took his place on the dining table with a boyish grin. "Well, what's so funny?"

Her laughter was mostly gone. Her grin lingered, though. "Nothing, Daddy. It was about my singing, that's all."

Izumi feigned a look of horror. "He heard you sing?"

"Yes," I replied promptly. "Your expression right now is what I had on when she started."

He gave me a sympathetic pat on the back. "I'm sorry if she completely destroyed the beauty of the song she sang."

"No worries," I played along. "I didn't recognize _what_ she was singing, anyway. She was so off-tune..."

"Excuse me, I'm right here," she butt in, annoyed. "Now, can we please eat?"

Izumi chortled and ruffled her hair. "Don't sulk, love. It doesn't become you."

She continued to do so, anyway, as she served us helpings of noodles. I smirked at her childishness.

"How's my Lamborghini, by the way?" I asked the older man. "I hope _she_ wasn't much of a burden."

"Certainly not!" he protested. "She's a rare beauty, I tell you. I'd die happy now that I've seen a 1969 400GT model. Just for bringing her to me, I won't charge you for my services."

I smiled briefly. "Thank you."

As she and her father bickered and laughed and told stories over dinner, I felt, for the first time, what being in a family felt like. The mood was warm and casual, as opposed to meals with Father, which were always so tense people could mistake us for strangers. Heck, even enemies. Here, they strived to always include me in their conversations, explaining to me their inside jokes and filling me in on gossip about their relatives. I learned about an uncle who confessed to being homosexual, an aunt who confessed to being bisexual, and a rich cousin who eloped with a pizza delivery guy. I learned about how Izumi courted Yuka—her mother—and how she fell for his pick-up lines (which I doubt).

And lastly, I learned about why she dressed up as a fairy and gave cookies out to strangers. "Mum used to bake a lot," she said. "And when I was five, she used to bring me to the park dressed up like a fairy to give her cookies out to whoever looked glum. For each person I put a smile on, she gave me an M&M as a reward. For each cookie I ate, I went to bed an hour earlier. It was her way of teaching me to be sensitive and unselfish."

"Ah, yes, love. You used to be a pretty selfish kid," Izumi chuckled. "No one in the kindergarten wanted to play with you because you never shared the toys, and you took the toys of the other kids too."

She laughed at this. "Yeah, I remember. Well, anyway, Mum's strategy worked. She made me stop doing it when I grew out of the outfit. But, after she—" there was a slight awkward pause before she said the word, "—passed on, I wanted to do something that would always remind me of her, and that was baking and giving out cookies. Eventually I decided to bring back the fairy costume. I realized that helping ease other people's sadness lifted my own, as well."

It was a profound thought. After a few moments of silence, Izumi said, addressing me, "It's not raining too hard anymore. Maybe you could drive home tonight. That is, if your parents will allow you to drive at this hour."

It was eight-thirty and relatively early for me—I drove home at two a.m. after parties, after all. "They will," I replied.

"Did you call them to let them know where you are?" she asked, wiping some sauce off her mouth with a pink tissue paper.

I grimaced. "No."

"Why?" She cocked her head to the side. "They'd be worried sick."

Their usage of 'they' disturbed me slightly, but I didn't correct them. "Father's...kind of upset with me now."

Izumi shook his head. "I betcha he's worrying about you right now more than he's upsetting over whatever you did, boy. Take it from a father."

_I don't think so_. _He'll be more worried about the car, _I thought, but I didn't voice it out.

After dinner, when it was time for me to leave, I thanked my hosts again, especially for the map that she gave me to find my way back. I donned my designer apparel again, which were now quite uncomfortable because they were still damp. Out of courtesy, I asked if there was anything I could do to repay their kindness.

"No need for that," Izumi waved me off. "But maybe you could visit us again next time. It gets lonely here with only Mikan's nasty singing to keep me company." She swatted his arm, and he muttered a sheepish, half-hearted apology. To me, he added with a grin, "And if you do come, bring your car, yeah?"

He probably meant it as a joke, but to my surprise, I thought, _Heck, maybe I will._


	3. Smiley Faced Cookies

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gakuen Alice. **

**AN: This chap's a little late, but I've been a bit busy. Exams came up and I think I might fail Math and Science. Forgive me! Oh, I noticed this has quite some hits, and some alerts too, but very few reviews. To those quiet readers out there, please send me a review so I know how I'm doing. It's the last chapter anyway... *grins* Thanks so much to those who reviewed: SonyaShulen (I was able to reply to your review-thank you so much again), pwenie (here's the update! :D), jusme (thanks for that review!), BlossomCutie (I've read Stargirl a long time ago, and now that I come to think of it, it IS somewhat similar! But I do love that story. Thanks for your encouraging review!), and especially to my first reviewer, ChicCuteness! Virtual cookies to you guys! Anyway, long chapter ahead, so on with the show—**

* * *

><p><strong>The Cookie Fairy<strong>

**.Three.**

**Smiley-Faced Cookies**

* * *

><p>I didn't head home that night. Father won't let me in, anyway; if he did, he'd just get the car keys from me before kicking me out. So instead, I left my phone, kept the Lamborghini with me, and crashed at Ruka's. His mother was my godmother, and she was more than delighted to have me stay, even whining that I didn't visit her enough. Normally I shied away from her pinching and squeezing and cooing, but since I relied on her hospitality for shelter and food, I took it all in stride like a man would, and was able to stay for a week now.<p>

Father never once asked around for my location during that time.

For all my apathy, this piece of knowledge—that he didn't care for me as much as I thought he did (and that isn't very much, mind you)—stung me, even if I tried convincing myself that I didn't need his concern.

"Honestly, has no one ever told her that Halloween doesn't happen in the middle of July?"

My attention immediately went back to the conversation at hand. Snickers and snorts rippled around the table exclusively reserved for us at Café Alice, as Sumire daintily stuck her nose up in the direction of her object of derision.

Who else would it be?

"She probably thinks Halloween _is _the middle of July," Koko sniggered.

"Why is she not in the asylum yet?" Mochu said, wrinkling his nose. "She might infect those kids with her insanity."

"Mochu," Ruka said, "Insanity isn't contagious."

That was so like Ruka. He never said a bad word about anyone, even if you'd think hanging out so much with us rich, spoiled kids would influence his pure perspective of the world. He lacked backbone, though—whenever shebecame the topic of conversation, he refused to mock her with us, but he won't defend her, either.

Kind of like me right now.

"It is when you're talking about her," Mochu gibed. Again, snorts of agreement resounded around the table, and contemptuous looks were once again thrown her way. I, on the other hand, kept quiet still, and took a sip of the latte served to me. I was still confused as to why I didn't _want_ to join in—after all, I had been the one who came up with _Kooky Fairy_ as her nickname—and as to why I didn't want to step up for her, either, despite knowing that they—_we_—were all so wrong about her.

When Sumire started a conversation on Luna, our second favourite person to pick on next to _her_, I sneaked a glance outside the café. She stood about a few meters from the door, dressed up in her fairy attire with little children circled around her and tugging on her ribbons, begging her to stoop down to hand them the little dolls she held in her hands. When she ran away instead, the children let out indignant, muffled cries and ran after her, squealing. How she managed to run around dressed like that with a basket dangling down her forearm was beyond me, but she didn't look the least bit encumbered by those—her smile was as radiant as ever, and I could almost imagine her rolling laughter as well.

The children obviously loved her, and it wasn't only because she gave away free cookies. They were attracted to her laughter and her warmth—her inner beauty—and though they're still young, they seem to be so perceptive of the calibre of someone's character. I've never seen children gravitate to _Sumire_ like that, if you know what I mean. Don't get me wrong—Sumire's my friend, and she's a spunky, fun girl, but she could be terribly nasty and judgmental. Just like the rest of us.

"Natsume?" Ruka's voice brought me back to them. "Are you okay? You're pretty quiet."

"Yeah, Natsu, what's wrong?" Koko chimed in. "You've been off since last week."

Several faces quickly turned to look at me, some crumpled in false concern.

I kept my face carefully stoic and waved them off. "It's nothing. Just replaying a few gameplans in my head."

"Oh, cool! That new play coach showed us will totally knock Morimoto off their sissy feet!" Koko immediately exclaimed, jumping up his seat and shoving a fist in the air. The discussion diverted away from me to soccer, which the boys discussed heatedly while the girls rolled their eyes in a way that said, _Boys will be boys._

I inwardly thanked Koko for his quick sidetracking. He was my other best mate and he probably knew I had problems that I didn't want to tell them just yet. He'd needle them out of me soon.

For all his fierce loyalty, I hoped that I'd never have to tell him.

* * *

><p>Later that day, after eating platefuls of dinner at Mrs. Nogi's insistence (godmothers always seem to think that their godchildren are too thin), Ruka called me into their massive parlor. From the slight nuance in his voice, I immediately suspected something was wrong.<p>

"Natsume," he said, his blue eyes wide in trepidation, his clutch on the cordless in his hand tightening, "Your father's on the phone. He wants to talk to you."

My emotions were in immediate tumult. _Damn. _He knew where I was all along. "Tell him I'm not here," I responded gruffly.

Ruka shook his head. "I told him. He doesn't believe me. He _knows _you're here, Natsume. And he demanded to talk to you."

That was my father, alright. Demanding instead of asking.

I sighed. Ruka gave me an apologetic look as he handed me the phone, and I willed my hands not to shake in fear of his wrath. I tried to be a man, rebelling to show him that I was capable without him, but now I was like a child again dreading a spanking. "Father," I said into the receiver.

"Natsume," he greeted me, just as curtly. "Why didn't you tell me you've been living on the Nogis' hospitality for a week?"

His question confounded me. I thought he knew from the start where I'd be, but from his phrasing, it seemed that he found out only now.

"We aren't beggars, Natsume," he added sternly. "And stop your immature act. Come home now." And then, he said, so softly that I almost didn't catch it—"Please."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, dumbfounded. He hardly ever used "please" anymore. In our company and at home, he didn't need to—people stumbled over their own feet scurrying to follow his orders, whether asked politely or not. He was _the _authority, and whatever he said was virtually law.

Yet, he had used _please_. To me, of all people.

In a few moments I was saying my profuse thanks and goodbyes to the Nogis for their generosity and to Ruka for understanding. Then, I was already on the Lamborghini driving home. And I couldn't help but chuckle sarcastically, thinking, _Maybe please really is the magic word, after all._

* * *

><p>When I stepped out of the Lamborghini and onto freshly trimmed lawn, I saw Father sitting on a porch bench still dressed in a rumpled business suit. His tie, though, was undone, and he held his head in between his hands.<p>

The position I saw him in now was so different from my mind's picture of him that I had to do a double-take to make sure that this dishevelled man before me was indeed my _father_, and not some chauffeur or personal assistant that had been fired.

I stood about three meters from him before he finally—and very slowly—raised his head to look at me with bloodshot eyes. "Natsume," he acknowledged. Despite his appearance, his voice still managed to remain cool and unattached, like it always was. But that didn't mean I was less alarmed by his appearance. Something really awful must have happened for him to ask me _nicely_ to come home, only to see him like _this_.

"Father," I replied, my pitch and tone of voice mirroring his. "Is something the matter?"

He stood up and closed in the distance between us, his tall, lean frame an ever-intimidating sight. He regarded me once, taking in my clothes, and said in a low, firm voice, "Why didn't you come home that night? I left for a month-long business trip that Saturday afternoon, and I hurry back home after a week when Nina informed me that you haven't come home once—not even for food or clothing—and that you left your phone behind."

My response was automatic. "I'm sorry, Father. It was foolish of me. It won't happen again," I replied, my head bowed as a sign of reverence, but mostly I bowed my head to hide the surprise in my eyes. He didn't realize I was gone, but then I didn't know he was gone, either.

Father surprised me by placing both his hands on my shoulders. "Look at me, son."

I did as I was told, again out of habit.

"You know that I'm proud of you, right, son?"

His eyes, once always piercing and critical, regarded me with a gentleness that I never knew he possessed. After a few seconds of blanking out from the shock of his statement, the weight of his words settled in, and my mind reeled with the impact they created on my emotions.

"If I never told you, Natsume, I'm sorry," he continued, the gentleness in his eyes now lacing his voice. "You know I don't like expressing my emotions. But I'm really proud of you, son. I'm really proud of you."

He enveloped me in a tight, fatherly hug. I stood still for a long time—or it might have been a few seconds, but it felt like a long time—processing what just happened. And when my mind was finally able to comprehend that Father was hugging me and praising me and finally appreciating me, an unfamiliar wet sensation pricked at my eyes.

Tears. For the first time in twelve years, there were tears in my eyes. I dared not let them fall. Now that he admitted that he was proud of me, I didn't want to disappoint him with my tears, my weakness.

But when he pulled back, his eyes were wet, too.

* * *

><p>After my reconciliation with Father, he made more effort to know about my life outside my duties and got to know my friends. He pressured me less and trusted my decisions more, and thus I had more freedom than I ever had before to do what I wanted, like take up swimming and art classes (no, I didn't think art is for sissies like my friends do). That was why, two weeks after I had re-established Father's trust in me, I asked permission to visit a friend an hour away with the Lamborghini.<p>

It was strange that Father readily agreed, and even stranger that I just called her my friend.

Just like the last time, she and Izumi received me with their usual hospitality, giving me so much to eat and laugh about that I was reluctant to go home. I was so different there from whom I really was with my friends that if they saw how I talked and acted before the Yukihiras, they wouldn't recognize me as Natsume Hyuuga. I suspected that this difference in my personality stemmed from the Yukihiras' obliviousness to my reputation, so I felt no pressure in living up to what other people expect me to be. They gave me a new slate, a new chance to reinvent myself.

From that day onwards, I visited the Yukihira household every Saturday at four o'clock in the afternoon, rain or shine, unless I had a game. But I still turned up after it, anyway.

On the fifth month of my weekly visits there, I watched her bake her SSFCB (Sunday Smiley-Faced Cookie Batch—she loved to make acronyms of the strangest things). She messed the kitchen up, as usual, and bits of chocolate chips, M&Ms, strawberry frosting, and leftover batter stained the neat, beige counter like streaks of paint on canvas. Her used baking utensils found themselves their own homes in cookie pots, under clutters of plastic, or in the empty cupboards overhead. Though she never returned them to their proper places, she always knew exactly where she left them.

Suffice to say, it was never boring to watch her bake. And it was also never boring to talk to her, either.

"Five," she said, dropping globs of batter on a waxed cookie sheet. "Definitely five."

"Wrong," I smirked, in reply to her guess of how many girls (girlfriends, flings, one-night stands) I've had. "Thrice that number."

She frowned. "Braggart. You're lying."

"Am not. Do you think so little of my charm?"

She chuckled as she slid the tray into the oven and kindled the flame under it before setting to work on another batch. "Maybe I thought more of your character. But I was obviously wrong."

"I don't sleep around, if that's what you're implying," I said, feigning hurt. "And I treat those girls well. Ask any one of them and they'd have nothing to complain about me as a lover." One of the bowls with leftover cookie batter caught my eye, and seeing my chance, I made a grab for it.

"I doubt tha—hey! No stealing _my _cookie batter!" she cried, snatching the flowery ceramic bowl from my hands with lightning speed that I didn't think was possible for humans. "Remember KR1: Whoever bakes gets the leftover cookie batter."

KR stood for kitchen rules—and yes, she had actually briefed me on them before she let me watch her bake. Thankfully, there were only five, but sometimes she made rules up along the way. Most of the time, I forget them all. The only one I remember is KR1, because she's ridiculously possessive of her cookie batter, and though I knew what it tasted like already, I still found amusement in trying to rob it from her clutches.

"But I helped you reach for the sugar," I pointed out. "And I brought you the eggs. Shouldn't I get a reward of at least two fingerdoses?"

A fingerdose was one of the many silly words she coined, which meant one swipe of the finger to whatever is being measured—in this case, the batter.

"No," she said sternly. "In this house, our kitchen is like its own dependent nation. You have to follow the laws governing it if you want to maintain peace and order."

I snorted at her hyperbolic analogy. "You're such a dictatress. No wonder you never had a boyfriend."

"And I'm proud of it," she beamed, stuffing the second tray into the stove, while still clutching the batter. "Besides, the rules are pretty simple. It's not my fault you can't seem to follow them."

"It's not my fault that you're selfish," I countered. She grinned and took a swipe of batter on her finger, before licking it clean off and smacking her lips for good measure, just to taunt me. But this proved to be a _very _wrong move on her part, as an idea formulated in my mind.

"You know," I said with a sly smile, "I know how to steal some of that stuff."

She rolled her eyes, obviously disbelieving, but said, "Oh, yeah? Do tell."

"No," I grinned. She pouted. "I'd rather show."

And with that, I kissed her.

At first, I thought she didn't want to be kissed, because she didn't throw her arms around me and kiss me back passionately, like most girls would. But after a few moments, it dawned on me that perhaps she had never been kissed before, and aside from this being her first time, she was caught off guard. So I kept the kiss chaste, pausing only to run my tongue over her cookie-batter-stained lower lip before breaking the contact.

Cookie batter had never tasted so delicious.

When I voiced this out, she looked stunned, and blinked her large brown eyes once. Then her innocent gaze turned accusatory. "You stole my batter!"

"It was with your consent, so I didn't steal it," I smirked. I wondered though how she could think of this after that kiss. Did she feel nothing? I knew my kisses were amazing—every girl in Alice Academy heard of it, and some have tasted for themselves—so why does she seem so unaffected? Besides the slight flush on her cheeks, nothing else betrayed her feelings after the kiss.

"Yes, you did steal it," she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest. Her cross facade, though, was slipping, and the twitch of her lips indicated that behind it she hid an impish smile. "And you know what they say about the things you steal."

Intrigued, I asked, "Do I get punished?"

She shook her head, tut-tutting. And, her reply would never fail to amuse me for the rest of our time together.

"No, silly. You have to give it back."

Well, how could I say no to that?

* * *

><p>Exactly a month after that—our month-sary, as she called it, though I found the occasion unnecessary—was Morimoto Academy's annual Baker's Fair. Our school was invited to drop by the event after class hours, and we were even allowed to give comments and suggestions on the goods, provided that they were well-rounded critiques. She never mentioned it to me, but I knew that she expected me to drop by her stall, and my original plan was to do so. But Mochu suggested that we <em>all<em> drop by the Fair, and surprisingly everyone agreed.

I tried to persuade them that she wouldn't be worth our effort. I was the leader of our group, after all, and most of the time they listened to me; but I was outnumbered this time. Sumire was in a particularly vicious mood that day after a humiliating comment from Luna about her bag being fake, and when she was in this sort of mood she needed a large amount of sweets to restore her temper, so she insisted to go as well. And wherever she went, Koko and Wakako followed.

When we arrived, they immediately headed to Anna Umenomiya's stall. She was the prodigy culinary student that Morimoto prided in, and her goods were always unique and affordable.

But as they fussed over which pastry to buy—as if they couldn't afford to buy her whole stall—I slipped away and went to look for her stall.

It wasn't hard to find. When I spotted a shimmering pink banner with ribbons in the distance, and little children crowding around the front, I knew right away that the stall was hers. True enough, there she was, giving away free bite-sized smiley-faced cookies to a child.

When she saw me, her luminous eyes crinkled and she smiled a smile so bright that the sun seemed to draw light from it. "Natsume! You came!"

I rolled my eyes. "No, I just saw the free samples you were giving away. I thought I might have some."

She pouted. "Well, you're not going to have any. They're reserved for the kids."

"Don't be selfish," I smirked.

"Don't be greedy," she said in reply.

"Mikan-nee, I don't mind sharing with 'nii-chan," a small voice spoke up.

She looked with surprise on a silver-haired boy, who wasn't more than five. "Are you sure, Youichi? That's the last cookie you're having for today."

The little kid nodded, and with a little of her urging, he went over to me and handed me the cookie shyly. Uncharacteristically touched by the gesture, I knelt before him and accepted his cookie with as much solemnity as he had relished it. "Thank you, Youichi. My name's Natsume."

"Nat—su—me," he repeated, staring at me with his curious eyes. "Natsume."

I ruffled his hair and smiled. "Yeah. You got it." To her, I said, "What do you know, the kid likes me."

She laughed. "Well, so do I!"

"Oh, don't be jealous," I smirked, inwardly happy at her first open confession. "You have a place in my heart."

"And you in mine, as well." She rummaged around and brought out a heart-shaped cookie that spelled my name. She gave me an impish smile. "Happy month-sary!"

I had to smile at that, and I said, "Well, I brought you a better gift." I took her quirk of the brow as a sign to continue. "Myself."

She smacked me on the arm. "You're so full of yourself."

I wagged my finger at her. "No insults in front of the kid."

She sighed in fond exasperation. "Well, Youichi, where's your Mother?" He pointed to a nearby stall. "You better return to her before she starts worrying about you," she cautioned.

I grabbed a jar of mini-cookies from her stall, and despite her protests, I handed it to the kid Youichi. "Here, kid. Take it. It's my gift."

His eyes widened at the sheer volume of cookies in the thing, and before he gave me a hug around the legs before he took it. "Thank you Natsume-nii! I love Mikan-nee's cookies!"

"Who doesn't?" I heard her tell me in an undertone, and when he was gone, I turned to her and said with a bite of the treat she gave me, "Well, who's full of herself now?"

Just as she was about to reply, Mochu and the rest suddenly emerged from nowhere. Their eyes almost fell out of their sockets when they saw me standing in front of her, eating her cookie.

"Natsume!" Sumire choked. "Is that—you?"

I rolled my eyes, surprisingly unashamed at having been caught. "I was trying out new stuff, that's all."

"Hello!" she greeted them with her usual cheer. "Would you like to try some cookies?"

Wakako frowned. "What are these, smiley-faced cookies?"

"We're not kids, you know," Mochu sneered.

She was oblivious to the antagonism in their tones. "Well, my friend said smiley-faced cookies make people smile. So I'm trying the concept out. I'd really appreciate feedback."

I gave her a secretive look before telling them, "They're pretty good."

Their jaws dropped at my straightforward statement. They were used to me rebelling against the rules and challenging the norms, but I bet they never expected I'd never do anything as radical as this. Even Ruka seemed astonished, but he was the first to recover.

"Well, maybe I'll try one..."

"Sure!" she chirped. "I have free samples. Mini-smiley-faced cookies. I get a lot of requests for them."

"Because you do it for free," Sumire said in an undertone.

She heard it, though. And instead of denying it, she laughed that rich, rumbling laugh of hers. "Yeah, I guess. It's really popular among the kids. They keep pestering me for it every week."

They all stood there, stunned at her frankness and sincerity. Eventually Ruka declared the cookies to be delicious. Koko and Mochu tried them next, then Wakako and Kitsu, then finally Sumire said she wouldn't degrade herself by taking samples—she would buy a cookie and see if it'd be worth her money.

It turned out to be, because she bought three dozens of it after. She had also developed some rapport with her as well, when Mikan commented how stylish her bag was. When Sumire asked her if she thought it was a genuine Coach bag, Mikan responded, "What does it matter? It goes with your outfit and it fits all the stuff you can buy. I couldn't have chosen a better bag for shopping purposes."

Good thing that finally sated Sumire's earlier anger against Luna.

Mochu, Kitsu and Wakako apparently still wouldn't warm up to her, though. They left shortly after Sumire bought a cookie, saying that it tasted worse than dirt. I couldn't blame them—old prejudices die hard. Besides, she didn't take their comments to heart.

I stood back for awhile, watching Koko devour more of the free smiley-faced samples with Ruka, and Sumire chatting with her like they were old friends, smiling and laughing like she had never really done with us before. I remembered shy Youichi's declaration of love for her cookies, and the other children's smiles while they played with her; I remembered the elderly people's tears of appreciation whenever she handed them her home-baked goods; I remembered the almost worshipful gratitude of the homeless beggars on the streets whenever she handed them a small bento for lunch and a smiley-faced cookie for dessert. And I thought, _Her friend was wrong._

Smiley-faced cookies don't make people smile.

She does.

* * *

><p><strong>.END.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yes, it's officially finished. Pardon the errors in grammar and structure; I rushed this because I felt so guilty for updating late. I'll revise it again sometime in the future if I have time again. Please tell me what you think. This is your last chance to critique this work, so please review! <strong>**THANK YOU EVERYONE!**


End file.
